The Paris Game (7 page)

He took her down the rue Saint-Sulpice and back to the boulevard St. Germain. The increased crowds made the route slow-going but neither of them minded. They squeezed through a queue of people waiting to buy a crepe from a sidewalk stand and Marc took the opportunity to lay a hand on the small of her back. He let it drop when the sidewalk widened, noting her disappointed glance.

“Have you always lived in Paris, monsieur?”

“Born and raised, though I travel a great deal.” He recalled their conversation from the other night. “Is Ottawa your home?”

“Yeah, for nearly my entire life. But I was born on the west coast. We moved when I was young.” Sophie didn’t elaborate, but her smile had faded. It wouldn’t do to remind her of her past. Marc changed the subject as they turned up the rue Boutbrie, heading towards St. Severin church, which stood imposingly behind an iron fence. Sophie craned her neck to look up at the bell tower and the graceful stone arches.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” she said. “It’s gorgeous.” They turned into the rue Saint-Severin and walked down the narrow street, past restaurants and shops. They crossed the street and turned towards the Seine. Notre Dame loomed in the distance. Sophie stopped to gape at the view. He put an arm over her shoulders and moved her off to the side of the busy walkway. She looked up at him in surprise.

“You were going to be run over by those little old ladies,” he told her. She giggled and he smiled back at her.

“They wouldn’t do that, would they?”

“They just might. Old ladies in Paris are dangerous.” She gave him a playful shove. He used that opportunity to draw her closer, feeling the press of her lithe body. “You need to be careful.” Of him.

Sophie laughed as he winked at her. She didn’t pull away until they started walking again. “Good thing I have you then.”

They turned into the rue de la Bûcherie, and she easily spotted the aged signage of the bookshop. Shakespeare and Co. was doing a brisk business this afternoon, and Marc could hear several languages being spoken.

“It is charming.” Sophie looked delighted. They made their way inside, squeezing past the queue at the cashier and up an uneven set of stairs. Sophie paused to look around at the shelves and piles of books. The little shop was crammed full of more books than seemed possible. Here and there were rickety old chairs tucked into corners, and a faded green velvet armchair was nearby, almost lost in stacks of paperback books.

Marc followed a step behind Sophie as she wandered through the shop. When they came across a neatly made bed with a bright, knitted quilt in a small side room, she glanced at him. He gave her a suggestive look and she made a little sound, almost a gasp. He was tempted to close the door and take her right there on the bed, pressing her naked body into the homely quilt.

“That’s not what I meant.” She was embarrassed.

“People do sleep here.” He took pity on her and kept the conversation light. “They get interns every year who stay in the shop.”

“I’d never be able to sleep if I worked here. There are too many books. I’d want to read them all. If I lived in Paris I’d be here all the time.” Her words tumbled out, awkward and hurried.

“You could come every day for the rest of your stay.”

Sophie laughed.

“I wish! But I’d never get anything done on my thesis, and I’d run out of money. I can only afford to be here for the next month or so. If I go home empty handed, my grandmother will consider it proof that I should have done something ‘more sensible’ with my studies.” Sophie sighed.

“Your grandmother doesn’t like art?”

“According to her, I should have gone into finance. She said that at least I’d get a good job.” Sophie stopped to look at a shelf full of coffee-table art books. While she looked at a book on Manet, Marc pulled down one on Degas. He flipped through it idly, leaning against the shelf. He looked up and saw Sophie eyeing his book.

“Do you like Degas?” he asked her.

“Not his ballerinas. My bedroom was decorated in them when I was younger.”

“You had dreams of being a prima ballerina?”

“Never, though my grandmother tried. I had the worst coordination.”

“You would look lovely as a ballerina.”

Sophie shook her head. “I preferred to sit and read.” Marc replaced the Degas book on the shelf. Sophie tucked the Manet under her arm and they continued on. It took them another half an hour to make their way through the rest of the shop. They stopped so Sophie could pay for her book, and then stepped back out into the sun.

“It’s such a nice day—I wish I hadn’t promised my roommate that I’d go shopping with her.”

“Cancel. Spending a Saturday afternoon on the terrace of a café is a much more pleasant pastime than shopping.” Sophie hesitated, and seemed caught up in an inner debate.

“I should meet her,” she said. She looked at Marc regretfully. “Thank you for showing me around.”

Marc slid his hand down her spine to the small of her back and turned her towards him. “The pleasure was mine.” Sophie didn’t move; she seemed too surprised. He took advantage of her indecision and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and she was obviously inexperienced, but she responded, letting him part her lips. He didn’t press his advantage, and when he pulled back, he saw the fleeting disappointment in her expression. It assured him that he was playing her completely right; he’d seen that look many times before and it had always led to success. He slid his business card into her hand and she recovered her composure. Sophie looked about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

“Call me,” he said, letting go of her hand.

“I will.” She glanced at his card before tucking it into the pocket of her jeans. “Merci.” She looked reluctant to leave, turning towards Notre Dame, then back to him. “Will I see you again soon?”

He nodded. “Just call.”

She gave him once last searching look before she turned to go. He watched her cross the road, walking along the Seine to the Petit Pont. She glanced back twice and he stayed standing in front of the bookshop until she was nearly across the bridge, too far to see him clearly. Once she’d gone, he went to the left, heading back along the Seine. As he walked, he began to hear sirens. At first it was faint, but as he drew closer to the Pont du Carousel, he could see the cluster of vehicles and their flashing lights surrounding the Musée d’Orsay. He paused near a group of tourists, drawing his cigarette case from his jacket as he watched the scene and listened to their conversation.

A woman in the group waved to another approaching. “Oh my god! There you are! I thought you’d been inside!”

The new arrival gave the woman a hug. “No, we were just in line. The police will be there for ages.”

“Did they find them?”

“I think they’re still looking. I can’t believe we were there!”

Marc stiffened, then forced himself to relax. He lit his cigarette and replaced the case. He resumed his walk, turning away from the river to head back to the boulevard St. Germain. He should have listened to his instincts. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if they were caught. He felt for his phone in his inner jacket pocket, but it didn’t ring. He took it out, but there were no missed messages. Did the Girards get away?

Marc hated waiting.

Lingering had been out of the question, as had going to the office. He went home. Pacing had only satisfied him for so long even with a scotch to soften his worries. When his phone buzzed, he picked up on the first ring.

“Oui?”

“We’re calling from the marketing firm of...” trilled a female voice before he ended the call. He left the phone on the coffee table and went to the alcove where he stored his cello. He took out the case and laid it on the floor, removing the cello and its bow. He drew up a straight backed dining chair, tightening the bow and tuning the strings. The habitual action helped him to relax. He played a few chords and found himself segueing into Tchaikovsky’s Nocturne in D-minor. He rarely played it, preferring pieces with fewer memories attached, but it always came back to him when he felt uncertain.

His mother had suggested he learn the piece for the entrance exam to the Sorbonne. “It’s beautiful,” she’d said. As a musician herself, she’d know. He’d been halfway through a lengthy practice session for the exam, barely eighteen years old. The doorbell had rung, interrupting his practice. He remembered the lieutenant’s sympathetic eyes and heard the words he hadn’t ever wanted to hear.

“Your brother is dead.”

He played through the piece, but the memory persisted. He chose another, but the Tchaikovsky stayed in his mind. His bow faltered on the strings as his vision blurred and his shoulders sagged.

The phone buzzed, its vibration loud on the wood of the coffee table. He snatched it up. The number displayed was blocked.

“Oui?”

“We made it.” Claude’s voice came over the line, heavily distorted by static.

“I’ll be there shortly. Do you have them?” All Marc could hear was static. “Claude?”

“Well, you see, monsieur...” Again, static.

He stood, laying his cello carefully in its case. He left the bow on the seat and walked the length of his apartment.

“What do I see, Claude?” The reception cleared and he could hear Michel in the background, talking to Claude.

“Tell him it wasn’t my fault!” Michel sounded panicked, almost hysterical.

“What wasn’t Michel’s fault?” Marc paced back across the living room, stepping around his cello. He paused in front of the window. The setting sun made him squint. He shaded his eyes and watched a pedestrian turn the corner at the boulevard de Courcelles while he waited for Claude’s reply.

“Shut up!” Claude hissed at his brother, though he’d poorly covered the phone and it carried to Marc. “Michel’s just over-excited,” Claude emphasized. “He thought we were going to get caught by the cops.”

Half a dozen violent scenarios came to mind as Marc listened to Claude embellish their daring escape from the pursuing police: how they’d ducked into alleyways and through parks, hopping on buses and finally the metro. Marc revised his favourite scenario—hanging Claude and Michel from a garret window by their ankles—to include gags. He moved away from the window, his body feeling like a coiled spring. His hand tightened around the phone.

“You’ve always been a poor liar, Claude.” He could hear Claude sputtering his assurances and Michel in the background. “Do you have them?”

Claude didn’t answer.

“You had better not disappoint me,” Marc warned. He heard Claude start his protests again, but he took the phone from his ear and ended the call. He slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans and bent to put the bow back into the case with his cello. He closed the lid and left it lying in the middle of the floor. The anger came swiftly and he cursed. He should have turned down Bates’ offer. He’d known better.

He’d slung his leather jacket on the sofa earlier and he grabbed it now, putting it on as he made his way to the door. Claude would find out just how furious he was. He paused in front of the bookshelf. He went cold. Something was off about the stack of books that he’d placed in front of the box holding his handgun and switchblade—and information on the theft. He’d stacked the books in alphabetical order by author, but several were now out of place.

Only Sera had been in the apartment. Had she looked? He moved the books aside and took out the box. It appeared untouched, all the materials as he’d left them. He removed the switchblade and tucked it into his jacket. If she’d said anything, given up any information, he would have to protect himself. He replaced the box and the books, re-stacking them in the proper order. He’d go see her later and find out what she knew. But not now.

Marc left his black Peugeot around the corner and down the block from the apartment. It was one of several he owned and rented out, and the only one unoccupied. He kept it that way, though on paper it was just another apartment without a steady tenant. He saw no one as he let himself into the building. He hadn’t been here in some time. The concierge’s door was closed and looked as if it had been undisturbed. A drying puddle of soda buzzed with flies and the door to the garbage disposal gaped open, filling the air with the stench of rotting food and refuse. Even on his first visit some years prior, when the building had been little more than a brothel, it hadn’t looked this neglected.

He took the stairs to the fifth floor apartment. The first time, he’d taken them at a mad dash, flinging open the door to find his uncle’s latest plaything sobbing into her hands, a robe flung haphazardly around her thin form. His uncle’s body had been sprawled across the sheets. He’d died of a heart attack, right in the middle of fucking that young thing. Hard to forget that scene. Marc turned the key in the lock. And here he was, carrying on his uncle’s business—all of it. Aside from the faint hum of the small refrigerator in the postage-stamp kitchen, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He walked into the main room and saw the sketches on the old dining room table, sandwiched between two sheets of heavy plastic. An ashtray half-filled with cigarette butts sat by a worn set of armchairs, next to crumpled fast food wrappers. Aside from the sketches, that was the only indication that Claude and Michel had even been in the apartment at all.

Marc lifted the plastic off of the sketches. No—the sketch. The paper had been crumpled around the edges, but it was intact. He carefully lifted the paper, but the second sketch hadn’t been tucked underneath. He replaced the plastic and dug for his phone, punching in Claude Girard’s number. It rang and rang before clicking to voicemail. He paced to the window, looking down at the street where the lamps had just come on. Of course, there was no one, and Claude and Michel were long gone. He tried the number once more, but there was no answer.